Overwhelming Guilt
by QuestionablyInsane
Summary: 'Children go to their parents for advice and so does he' After Luc baulks at the idea of actual commitment, he heads to the only place he knows he won't be judged, even if it does mean revisiting difficult parts of his past.


Hey guys, I'm back with yet another random _'Leddi'_ drabble that impatiently consumed all my creative-energy until I wrote it down. Set after Luc's departure and really it's just my take on one of the many possibilities of Luc's backstory.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing – all right go to the BBC, except for my appalling storyline creation.

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He carried so much responsibility and guilt, too much for someone of his age; to see someone so young suffering so much was heart-breaking. Every hospital visit saw an increase in his melancholy until near the end he was nothing but a shadow of the little boy whose enchanting smile that had once lit up a room was but a faded memory. Yet another loss claimed by the disease that was slowly tearing the family apart.

He was a skinny boy of eight when his smile finally disappeared; when he was forced to mature overnight. He was still just a child but with the responsibilities of an adult; and even with his remarkable intelligence, he struggled to understand something that many adults find perplexing.

He always tried his hardest to help, in the only way children can, by letting her know that he was there for her, with the unconditional love that children have for their mothers. He'd awoken one day to find her sat in a chair by his bedroom window, staring out across the fields and mumbling the same words over and over again.

"There's nothing they can do, I'm broken. They can't fix me"

He'd rubbed sleep from his eyes and gone to give her a hug, flinching when she pulled away and continued her mutterings, "There's nothing they can do, I'm broken. They can't fix me"

Her monotonous and emotion-less voice had begun to creep him out and he'd waited silently, hoping she'd stop. Her pale skin was nearly translucent in the early morning light, tribute to the fact that she'd stopped leaving the house, and she was thin and frail, the skin stretching taunt every time she spoke the words that would probably haunt him forever. With no end in sight he'd made her a desperate promise,

"I'll fix you" he whispered.

She didn't laugh or even smile; she'd just turned her head and stared sadly at him without passing comment before returning her gaze to the window.

Every day after that was a constant struggle with no-one to help in a battle against the illness, against his mother's stubbornness and pride. His dad had walked out on them many moons ago, when he was barely two. He'd obviously noticed his wife's declining mental health and rather than toughening up and helping her through it, he'd taken the coward's way out and ran. Luc had no memories of his father and what he did know came from bitter stories that his mother often ranted over.

That had left Luc in charge of everything from making sure they attended hospital appointments regularly to ensuring there was food in the house. With no father figure to depend upon, Luc shouldered all the responsibility and constantly wished he could do something, anything to make it go back to the way it used to be; back when she'd been healthy and happy, when he'd been allowed to just be a child. When rare trips outside the house meant visiting the local playground, not lengthy mind-numbing hours spent in various hospitals.

He'd been constantly let down by the people who should have helped; by the people who were supposed to care and keep him safe in the world. Abandoned by a father who'd rather hide his head in the sand than protect his own son from a childhood of illness and upset.

* * *

He remembers a year or two later being the first time that he actually witnessed what the illness was doing to her. Of course, he'd been watching the effects for years, but she'd always brushed them off and pretended nothing was happening. He can remember with stark clarity the seconds-long feeling of dread at the sight of her tears, at seeing his dishevelled mother crumpled in a chair. His immediate reaction had been to run to her and offer comfort, after all he'd known this day was coming for a while, but something held him back.

It was only once she'd beckoned him to her that he actually moved; and then she'd rambled on about vague inanities that he can't recall anymore before the tears returned.

'"You should be able to fix me! Make them fix me" she'd pleaded, kneading her thin hands into the front of his shirt, pulling him towards her.

Through teary eyes he put his hands on top of hers, "I can't mum; I tried but I can't" he whispered.

Her eyes were full of sadness and despair, "I can't live like this Luc; I can't go on forgetting everything I once knew"

* * *

He remembers reflecting back on the conversation later, and how he'd automatically known she was referring to the side effects of her medication, wondering quite what it was that she didn't want to forget. She'd never had much luck with men and her career as an academic lecturer was her only interest outside of looking after her son. He'd wondered back then if she was worried about forgetting everything she knew and loved about literature; as a former university lecturer she'd been passionate about her subject and inspired his love of reading.

It wasn't until years later when his naivety and youthful attitude had gone that he realised what she'd meant. At the time he'd thought she meant things like her own name, or her address, because even a highly intelligent child can't quite grasp the same things as an adult. They haven't seen enough of the world to know that darker things exist or that there are more things to life than books and learning.

But when he'd spooked and ran away; when his commitment-phobic claustrophobia had kicked in, he'd finally realised what she'd been talking about. Even though it felt like someone was physically ripping him apart when he thought of what he'd done to Eddi, of the pain he must have caused her, he still forced himself to think of her. He didn't want to stop thinking about her, because once they'd gotten past their problems and fighting, they'd had good times together. He'd been closer to her than anyone else and even if he never sees her again, he always wants to remember what it was like to be loved.

* * *

He enters the building with heavy footsteps and a feeling of dread, there's never any indication of how the morning's going to go. He'd been debating coming for days, usually he put it off; there was nothing more painful than sitting in a room surrounded by paranoid people who were forgetting everything they'd treasured. But it's been three weeks since he ran away from Holby and he still can't stop thinking about her, about the hurt he's caused. He's never experienced this before and this is the only place he can think of to get the advice he needs. She might not always remember the tiny details, but she's still his mother and surely she'll know what he should do.

She's illuminated by the sun streaming through the window when he arrives, when he enters a room with air so heavy with its occupants declining health, that he almost finds it hard to breathe.

He walks slowly towards her so as not to spark a negative reaction but she doesn't even blink. He sits awkwardly in front of her, "Hello mum"

Her stare goes straight through him as if he doesn't exist. Her body is eerily still except for her hands; hands which are constantly knotting around each other, wringing them out as if she was anxiously awaiting something. Not that she could be, she can barely remember to feed herself three times a day anymore.

It breaks his heart to see someone he'd always looked up to, someone with such a brilliant mind, reduced to this. Reduced to little more than a zombie, constantly zoned out by the cocktail of drugs needed to keep her docile and cooperative.

"Mum, how are you?" he tries again, trying to keep his voice from breaking as her eyes flicker over him and then back to the wall.

She's having a bad day; more often than not those are the kind she has now, so he knows when to quit. Instead he slowly and quietly reaches for her hands and she allows him to sit there and hold them, to seek reassurance from his mother, just like anyone else would do in his situation.

Children go to their parents for advice and so does he; he just receives his in the form of silent appreciation and the occasional smile of approval. He knows it's the disease that's forced her to forget who he is or why he visits. But he won't let it prevent her from enjoying the little things in life; whether it's the monthly letters or books he sends her, or the less frequent visits, she knows she's his number one priority. He owes her that much.

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